


Eclipse

by thewildeside



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Music, Not Happy, Organized Crime, this is alarkling we're talking about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildeside/pseuds/thewildeside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alina Starkov just wanted to drink her god-damned tea, not put up with special agents and mob bosses. She's a violinist, not an informant. Massively AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

_The screams echoed in the hallway. They brought to the surface her vague memories of her life before Keramzin. The image of a man riddled with bullet holes swam in her mind’s eye. Alina shuddered, creeping along to the end of the hall. She swung the heavy door open and surveyed the scene. Blood’s metallic scent filled her nostrils. Lying crumpled in the center of the room was a man, his body oozing red from various cuts. He uttered one last scream, then a whimper, and then nothing. Alina took a step back, gasping in shock. Aleksander turned his head upon hearing her gasp. His eyes went wide. Alina ran from the room, the hallway, the apartment. From Aleksander. “Alina! Wait!” he called. Her footsteps echoed in the hall. “Come back!”_

 

That had been five months ago. Alina shook her head, breaking herself from her reverie. Voices chatted in the background as the espresso machine whirled. A barista called out that a vanilla latte for someone called Dmitri was ready. Two metal ceiling fans turned, creating weak breezes that did little to alleviate the stuffy air of the coffee shop. Desperately trying not to spill her tea and not to hit anyone with her violin case, Alina Starkov navigated the crowd of customers in an attempt to find a table. She had enough time in between students to sit down and enjoy her tea. _Why is this place so busy anyway?_ Set in a secluded area of Cofton, this cafe had barely enough patrons to keep it afloat. There was never a crowd during Alina's daily mid-afternoon visit. She had chosen it for that very reason.

 

Alina breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted a table in the far corner of the shop. Mercifully, the small table still had its chairs when Alina made her way there. She set down her tea, angled the violin case against the table, and sat down. For the first time since she arrived in Cofton months ago, Alina almost relaxed. That, of course, was when the stranger decided to appear.

 

Alina stiffened, about to take a sip of her tea, as the stranger pulled out the table's other chair without being invited. He was speaking loudly into his phone while he causally set down his coffee-cup. "Yeah, yeah, Zoya, she's here. No, I wasn't followed-"

 

_And there went my break_. Irritated at the man's obviousness ( _For saints' sake, he was wearing dark-tinted sunglasses indoors_ ), Alina set her cup down as well. She cleared her throat, narrowing her eyes. Glaring at the man, she asked, "Who wears sunglasses indoors?"

 

The man gave a slight nod in her direction. "Zoya, I'll call you back," he hung up the call and stashed the phone in his blazer. He took off his sunglasses, revealing hazel eyes, and flashed her what he probably thought to be a charming smile. "Special agents, that's who," he said brightly.

 

Alina drummed her fingertips against the table's wooden surface. "And I suppose you're a special agent?" she ventured. "Agent Sturmhond, Ravkan Investigative Agency, at your service." He made a tiny salute. Forcing herself to keep her breath even, she thought, _This idiot is going to get himself killed._ "You are a far way from Ravka, Agent Sturmhond. I can't imagine what business the RIA has in Novyi Zem," Alina said, unimpressed. Under her breath, she murmured, "You are aware that I have a shadow, yes?"

 

The agent continued to grin. "Just Sturmhond, please. Big, hulking fellow named Ivan, right? He's been temporarily detained. Don't worry, Miss Starkov. We've taken care of the cameras and swept for listening devices. This place is clean. We may speak freely."

 

Alina's fists clenched under the table at the mention of her name. "Can we now?" she muttered. "What ever it is you want, Sturmhond, I can't help you." She pushed her chair out from the table and stood. She was about to leave when the agent grabbed her forearm.

 

"Miss Starkov, please wait. I think you'd be very interested in what I have to say," he pleaded. "It concerns Aleksander Morozova."

 

Alina pulled her arm free. She sat back down in her chair. Propping her elbows onto the table, Alina inquired, "I suppose you think that I know this Aleksander Morozova?"

 

Face grave, the agent answered, "Normally I would love to play these games, Miss Starkov, but we're on a time limit. Let's cut to the chase. You and I both know of Morozova, of your relationship to him. You two were remarkably close."

 

"If you're interested in this Morozova, then I don't know why you're talking to me," Alina asked, refusing to confirm or deny. Sturmhond arched an eyebrow. "Simple. The RIA wants you to be an informant. With your help, we can bring Morozova to justice."

 

Alina took a sip of her tea. _I'm going to regret this._ "Morozova ruled the Ravkan underworld for years. When he does emerge from the shadows, he pretends to be nothing more than an amateur pianist living off his inheritance. Few people know from where the money actually comes." _I didn't, until that night._ She had been taken in like the rest. Alina made a face at her tea. It had been brewed for too long. "Those who do have turned a blind eye. I know for a fact that this includes the RIA."

 

Sturmhond had the grace to look sheepish. "The RIA has changed its opinion on Morozova's activities. I'm not authorized to tell you the whole story, unfortunately. The gist of the matter is that, in the five months since you've left Ravka, Morozova has changed his behavior patterns. Like you said, Morozova has preferred the dark for years. Now, though, he's stepped into the light. Gained a lot of attention as a philanthropist too. Morozova has started donating to causes that provide relief for refugees and war orphans. He has been personally visiting those soldiers on active duty as well, bringing them new boots and letters from their families." Sturmhond took a gulp of his coffee. "What's more, Morozova was spotted in the company of the Fjerdan envoy when they visited Os Alta last month. You can understand that the RIA finds it hard to reconcile the intelligence we have on Morozova with the do-gooder image Morozova is presenting." Sturmhond paused to sip so more of his coffee.

 

_What are you up to, Aleksander?_ Alina thought.

 

Sturmhond continued in a clipped tone, "To general distress, however, the RIA has had little success in figuring out his plans. We want you to return to Os Alta, to renew your relationship with Morozova. Your proximity to him makes you an ideal candidate find out what he's planning. Please understand, we are asking you as a last resort. You're an untrained civilian. We wouldn't have come to you if we had any other options."

 

Her vision began to swim. She felt the ghost of long fingers on her neck, her hair, her chin. _Do they understand what they are asking?_ Alina had run from Ravka for a reason. She had been so blind, until that night. _A fist pounding on the door. Feet scraping against floorboards. Blood streaming on tiles._ "Tell me, Sturmhond," Alina said, drawing out the syllables. "I am safe here in Cofton. I am free. I like it here. Why should I leave? Why should I do as you say and return to Os Alta? I have all the subtlety of a sledgehammer."

 

"Besides the satisfaction of helping your country?" Sturmhond leaned forward, his hazel eyes meeting hers. "You're our best chance at finding out his plans. He wouldn't suspect you. The RIA has already sent in two agents. Both were discovered within two weeks, and Morozova gave them no mercy." Sturmhond gripped his coffee cup. "Pardon my bluntness, but are you truly happy in Novyi Zem? I wonder if you as safe as you think. Five months ago you were the concert-mistress of the Royal Ravkan Symphony. Now you teach violin to uninterested, unmotivated brats. Morozova sent someone to tail you, as you said yourself. You are hundreds of miles away, but he still keeps tabs on you. How long will it be before he comes himself?" He glanced at his watch. "I've met men like Morozova before. They don't let go. His influence on your life won't end until Morozova is in solitary and his business dismantled. Which, if we're successful, is exactly what will happen."

 

Sturmhond pushed his chair back, the wooden legs scraping against tile. Holding his coffee, he said, "You don't have to decide right now. When you do, call this number. It's a secure line, direct to my office. Untraceable. I hope to hear from you soon." The agent handed her a slip of paper, and, flashing her another grin, disappeared in the crowd of patrons. Alina heard a faint tinkling of the shop's bell as the door closed over the chatter.

 

Alina's fingers clenched around the paper. Tempted to throw it away, she shoved it inside her coat pocket instead. _How long will it be before he comes himself?_ The bell at the shop's entrance tinkled again. _Probably Ivan._ She forced herself to not turn around, to stare down at her now-cold tea. A voice with a heavy Ravkan accent ordered a black coffee, confirming her suspicion. I can't deal with this today. Before Sturmhond appeared, Alina had been successfully ignoring Ivan's presence for most of the day. She had almost managed to convince herself. Alina gulped down the last of her tea, picked up her music bag and instrument case, and left the coffee shop. She had a lesson to teach.

 

* * *

 

Gray light filtered through the windows of Alina's apartment building, barely illuminating the creaky floorboards. Shouting from the family in Apartment 503 flowed past the thin walls. _They're at it again._ Like her, like almost everyone in this building, they had fled from Ravka and her wars. She had met briefly met the family when they arrived two weeks ago. The mother had told Alina about the bombing of their small town near the Fjerdan border in excruciating detail. She mentally shivered at the woman's description of thick, black smoke and bones crunching.

 

Alina continued plodding through the narrow hallway toward her apartment. _515_. Her neighbor, a thin, grouchy old woman, stood in the doorframe of her own apartment. She was chewing on _jurda_ , a Zemeni habit the woman had picked up two months ago. She spit the flower's juice into a nearby spittoon and tilted her head toward Alina's instrument case. She said crankily, "You planning on playing that thing? Noise woke me from my nap last time."

 

"No, _gaspazhah_. You can take your nap in peace," Alina promised.

 

The old woman grunted her approval and shut her door. Alina sighed. Every time she attempted to practice, someone or the other complained about the noise. _It's not like I play badly. I was part of the Royal Symphony, saints' sake._ She shook her head and unlocked the door to her apartment. Alina walked in, setting down the case on the kitchen table. It swayed disturbingly from the instrument's weight. She groaned. _It's a violin, not a tuba._ She was grateful for the sanctuary the apartment provided, but why did all the furniture have to be crap? Alina pressed her fingers into her temples, plopping onto the moth-eaten couch. "Ugh," she moaned. The day had been trying. She had arrived at the homes of the day's last student, only for his mother to inform her that the boy in question was sick and therefore there was to be no music lesson. _They couldn't have called ahead and saved me the bus fare?_

 

And then there had been Sturmhond. Alina swung her feet onto the other end of the couch to lay down and closed her eyes. _He does not know what he is asking._ The agent had not been there that night. He didn't hear the banging, the ungodly screams. He didn't know how the blood dripped onto the black and white tiles. He didn't feel her fear when she jumped on the next plane leaving Os Alta, only pausing long enough to resign from the Symphony and pack a get-away bag. No one could spy on Aleksander Morozova, least of all her.

 

Still, something about Sturmhond's information prodded at Alina. Sturmhond was right. The Aleksander Alina knew was quiet, reserved. He always did his best to keep in the shadows. Now, according to Sturmhond, Aleksander had done a complete reversal and gained quite a bit of attention as a philanthropist. Donating to causes that helped refugees, orphans. Visiting soldiers. Aleksander had made his disinterest for Ravka's wars clear in the past. Nothing added up. _But, hell, what do I know? I thought Aleksander's money came from inheritance, not blood._ Maybe it was nothing, and the RIA's suspicions were for naught. Maybe Aleksander had genuinely developed a taste for philanthropy in her absence. But then she heard the screams again. The blood. How long until he comes himself? Sighing, Alina knew her answer to Sturmhond's query.

 

Alina pushed herself back into a sitting position. _We're all going to die_ , she thought morbidly as she drew her cell phone and a crumpled slip of paper from her coat pocket. She dialed the number and pressed the call button. “I’ll do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't edit this anymore. I've been sitting on this chapter too long. Sorry for any typos.  
> If it isn't clear, the format of this chapter is flashback/present/flashback.

_Her fingers ached. Her wrist complained with every controlled bow stroke. Her arm begged to release her grip on the violin. The chin rest dug into her neck. Alina had never felt more alive than she did in that moment, leading her section in the Symphony's performance of the Firebird Suite._

 

 _Alina effortlessly glided her bow over the strings as the first violins repeated the Firebird Suite's main theme for the final time. She shifted the position of her hand up the fingerboard to reach the higher notes. It had all been worth it: the criticism from Ana Kuya to use her music scholarship to study a "real" major, the long hours in rehearsal and private practice, complaints from her neighbors that she practiced too often and too loud. She was not just in the renowned Ravkan Royal Symphony; she was tonight's acting concert master!_ Take that _, she smugly told the memory of her first music teacher, who believed none of his orphaned students would amount to anything._

 

 _The_ crescendo _began, and the flute picked up the theme. The volume swelled, each orchestral section harmonizing with each other, building into a sudden_ piano _. Alina glanced up at Igor, the conductor, waiting for indication to start the tremolo. Igor gave the cue, and every bow began to move rapidly. The trombones' sound soared over the rest of the symphony, aided by the timpani. Alina felt the drum's vibration in her bones._

 

 _The stage lighting seemed to glow brighter as they reached the final few measures of the suite. Beads of sweat formed on the back of her neck._ Just the chords left _, Alina thought, her bow moving vigorously. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the loose hairs dangling on her stand partner's bow. He was apparently approaching the chords with a lot of enthusiasm._

 

_With a concluding clang from the cymbals, Igor lowered his previously flailing baton. Alina lifted her bow from the string, allowing the sound to ring through the air. Igor stepped off the platform and bowed to the audience. He was quickly greeted with an explosion of applause. He turned, motioning for the musicians to stand and bow._

 

 _Alina grinned as she bowed, exhilarated by the music and audience's praise. She tried to find her friend and roommate Genya among the sea of people that filled the concert hall. She found Genya's red hair in the seventh row from the stage. Genya was clapping energetically, which made Alina smile even more. Her friend's support cheered Alina more than she thought it would._ Maybe it's because Mal never came, _a voice whispered in the back of her mind._ He never really understood how much music means to you.

 

Stop it _, Alina told the voice firmly._ I am going to enjoy this moment, and I won't have you messing it up.

 

_Too far away and partly blinded by the stage lights, Alina was unaware that she was the object of an interested gaze._

 

***

Alina was all jitters and nerves on her flight to Os Alta, to the annoyance of the bearded man who sat in the neighboring seat. The turbulence did not help matters. She tried to sleep during the long flight, but her anxiety about Sturmhold’s mission disturbed any chance for rest. After a particularly strong burst of turbulence that had her stomach in knots, she made a run for the bathroom at the far end of the place. It was, thankfully, unoccupied. Alina did not want to think about the situation if the bathroom had been in use. The flight attendant would not have been pleased.

 

Alina barely managed to lock the sliding door before she sank onto the tiny space between the toilet and sink. Lifting up the toilet seat, Alina proceeded to vomit up the herring the mother from Apartment 503 had insisted she eat. Alina had tried to decline, but the mother was extremely determined. _Where did she even find herring in Cofton, anyway?_

 

With a final heave, the last of the contents of her stomach went into the toilet. She breathed heavily before forcing herself to stand. It was that moment when the plane decided to hit another burst of turbulence. Gripping onto the plastic handicapped bar to keep from stumbling, Alina flushed the toilet and washed her hands. There were no paper towels. _Of course not_. Shaking her head and attempting to ignore the taste of bile in her mouth, Alina glimpsed herself in the mirror. She looked terrible. Bloodshot eyes. Uncombed hair. The dark circles under her eyes, her childhood plague, were especially prominent.

 

 _Sturmhond is going to get me killed_ , Alina thought. _Aleksander will find me out in half a minute, and that will be that._ She ran her still-wet fingers through her hair as she remembered her phone call with the RIA agent.

 

 _Don’t wait for Morozova to come to Novyi Zem,_ he had told her. _Go back to Os Alta, to your apartment. Let him know that you have had a change of heart, that you want to continue your relationship. Get back into his good graces. Make him trust you. Remember, it is imperative that he not suspect any ulterior motives._

 

Alina winced as she worked her fingers through a particularly big knot. Did Sturmhond understand just how far her relationship with Aleksander had progressed before she left? She sighed. That night had been so far from what she had envisioned. Instead of the music and champagne and a small velvet box she imagined with Genya, Alina’s preconceptions of Aleksander Morozova had been shattered by screams and blood. Becoming engaged to a mobster was not on Alina’s bucket list. No, her bucket list mostly consisted of learning how to draw a decent map. Organized crime, definitely not on the list.

 

The memory of her conversation with Sturmhond continued to play in her mind. _An agent will be assigned to you as your liaison. Report your information and any problems to her. Her code name is Squaller. However, if you have an exceedingly pressing emergency, call me. You will still be able to call this number in Ravka. Like I said, it’s untraceable. Do not come to the RIA building in Os Alta unless the situation is dire..._

 

Someone knocked on the bathroom’s door, startling Alina from her reverie. “Miss!” a voice called. “Are you alright? You’ve been in there for a while.”

 

“Almost done,” Alina answered. She drew her fingers from her hair. At least that looked slightly better. She unlocked the door and slid it open, revealing the blue uniform of the flight attendant.

 

"Are you alright, miss?" the flight attendant repeated, concerned. *Alina shook her head. "Upset stomach, nothing that getting off this plane won't fix." _Or, you know, Aleksander's imprisonment._

 

The attendant's gaze was sympathetic. "There's always a few who get airsick. Would you like some ginger ale? We have some in the back. It's not a cure for motion sickness, but it helps more often than not."

 

"Yes, please. Thank you," Alina said gratefully. _If only I was simply airsick._

 

"I'll bring it right out after you go back to your seat then, miss."

 

Alina nodded and began stumbling her way back to her seat. Halfway through the aisle, she heard a familiar voice mumbling something to his neighbor. She knew that voice. It belonged to her shadow, the one Sturmhond called Ivan. She paused for a second, her breath hitched and heart pounding. _I thought he was still in Cofton._  Forcing herself to keep moving, Alina managed to make it back to her row in the back of the plane.

 

Alina clutched the armrests tightly when she sat down, her knuckles white. In her preoccupation with Sturmhond and subsequent motion sickness, she had not noticed the hulking mass that was Ivan board the airplane. Alina swallowed, wincing at the residual vomit taste in her mouth. She could not afford to slip up now. During her stay in Cofton, she had usually noticed her tail among the Zemeni crowds. It was hard to miss one so obviously Ravkan against so many Zemeni. But then again, maybe he hadn’t been trying to blend in during her stay in Cofton and was only applying that particular skill set now. Either option did not bode well for Alina. _Saints, am I in over my head._

 

“Your ginger ale, miss,” a voice said, causing Alina to jump in her seat. Her neighbor gave her a sideways glare in response to the movement. Alina turned her head toward the aisle and saw the flight attendant with a can of Schweppes and a plastic cup.

 

“Thank you,” Alina responded, accepting the items. The flight attendant nodded, saying, “Don’t be afraid to ring if you need anything else.”

 

When Alina replied in the affirmative, the attendant continued down the aisle. Alina opened the can and, ignoring the plastic cup, took a big gulp. She glanced at her neighbor’s bulky digital watch. _Five more hours on this monstrosity._  Torn between her desire for solid land and dread about the closing distance between her and Aleksander, Alina tried not to groan. She sipped more of her soda, ignoring the growing pit at the bottom of her stomach. The plane hit another burst of turbulence.

 

***

 _Alina hummed the main theme of the Firebird Suite as she cleaned her violin. Not even the squeaky sounds of wiping rosin dust off the violin strings could dim her performance high. The sound of the timpani still echoed in her ears. Her fingers were a still bit sore pressing down on the violin strings, but the audience gave them a standing ovation. The applause had lasted for ages. And to think, such a success occurred while she was concert master! Well, acting concert master. Sergei had called in sick. Alina supposed it was unfortunate timing, but she still thanked the saints for the opportunity to lead while the orchestra played her favorite suite._ Besides _, she thought._ Sergei isn't as great a violinist as he thinks he is.

 

 _There was a knock on the dressing room door. "I'm almost done, Genya!,” Alina called. "Give me a few minutes." Her friend had insisted that they go out for drinks after the performance. She placed her instrument in its case and moved on to the bow. Still humming the suite's final theme, she cleaned yet more rosin dust from the dark wood and clipped the bow’s loose hairs. She had been more than a little enthusiastic while playing the Infernal Dance portion of the suite._ I hope Genya doesn't want to go to that club in city central. There's always too many people and too much noise _. If Alina was going to lose her hearing, she would rather it be from listening to the brass section's 'Who Can Play the Loudest?' competitions, not over-sized music speakers._

 

 _The knocking on the door became more vigorous. Alina stopped herself from sighing._ Saints, I'm almost done!  _"Just come in," she called impatiently, not looking up. Alina placed the now-clean bow into her case's bow spinner and shoved the dust cloth into the internal compartment. Distracted, she did not hear the door opening._

 

 _She was just locking the case closed when she heard it. Someone coughing. Not the racking coughs Alina used to have when she first arrived at Keramzin, sick and weak from the heavy gray smoke that had engulfed her home after the Shu Han attack. The kind that people used to call attention to themselves. Genya only ever did that when she was especially irritated._ Saints, how badly does she want that drink? I've only been in this room for ten minutes _._

 

 _"What's wro-," she began, finally glancing up. Her eyes widened. The person standing a few feet in front of her was not her friend. No, the cougher was a stranger. A man wearing a dark suit, with dark hair tied into a short ponytail and high cheekbones._ Oh saints, he's beautiful _, Alina thought. Trying not to blush, she stated, "You're not Genya."_

 

_"No, I'm not," he agreed. "However, I take it that you are Alina Starkov. Igor told me you were here."_

 

 _Alina nodded slowly, not sure how to react to this information. Igor, the Symphony conductor, was the quiet type outside of rehearsal. He generally didn't deign to speak to non-musicians._ Who the heck is he? _"And you are?" she asked, eyebrow raised._

 

_The intruder held out his hand for her to shake. "My name is Aleksander Morozova."_

 

_She shook his hand gingerly. His fingers were cool against hers. "And Igor told you where my dressing room is because?"_

 

_"Because I asked him," he smirked. "I am a board trustee and brought Igor to this organization in the first place. Igor was less than inclined to not answer me. Besides, I was already aware of the backstage floorplan. I simply inquired as to where I might find the concert master. I had been unaware there had been a change in leadership."_

 

_Alina was sure that if she raised her eyebrow any further it would disappear into her hair. "Well then, Mr. Board Trustee, you should know that I'm only acting concert master. I'm normally the assistant concert master. There was a position change a couple months ago, but the new concert master, Sergei, called in sick a few hours ago."_

 

 _Aleksander Morozova looked her up and down, considering Alina's statement. "From the performance I just heard, one would think that you are the true concert master, not this Sergei. I have never heard_ Firebird _executed so well as tonight. Especially with such short notice. Which is unacceptable. Symphony protocol requires twenty-four hour notice in case of absence due to sickness. I hope for his sake that he has a serious illness."_

 

_She looked him straight in the eye and said, "I hope you saved some of that praise for Igor and the rest of the Symphony. It's a team effort. And Sergei is great at his job. It's not his fault he's sick." Alina pushed her own thoughts on Sergei aside._

 

_"I did not mean to offend." Her visitor raised his hands in mock surrender. He took a step forward, and Alina fought the urge to take a step back. "I simply wished to congratulate you."_

 

 _Alina felt her phone vibrate in her jacket pocket._ Probably Genya wondering where I am. Time to get rid of this guy _. He was standing too close for her liking. "I accept your congratulations then. If that's all, Mr. Morozova, I need to get going." She picked her instrument case up from the table._

 

_"Of course, Miss Starkov," he said. "Just one more thing." He took yet another step forward and took her free hand. Lifting her fingers to his lips, he gently kissed them. "Please call me Aleksander. I think we will be seeing each other again in the near future."_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did name the conductor after Igor Stravinsky, the composer of the Firebird Suite and many other works. Personally, he's one of my favorite composers. Thanks for reading -- CV

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know guys. I was at a Symphony concert, and I kept thinking about Alina and the Darkling playing sonatas together. This was going to be a one-shot in a completely different direction, but then this happened. Why do you do this to me brain. Anyway, thanks for reading. I hope it wasn't too bad. -- CV


End file.
